


i promised you the world (and you'll have it)

by cosetties



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 14:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3385004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosetties/pseuds/cosetties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mickey takes Ian home from the hospital, he's all smiles and positivity. </p><p>(“So damn young, such a shame,” they all say, as if they can already see the expiration date Mickey refuses to acknowledge.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	i promised you the world (and you'll have it)

**Author's Note:**

> once again, another product of too many feelings about these two dorks.

Ian’s all but moved in with Mickey these days, so it’s not hard to figure out who’ll take over his care. As is befitting their familial duty, the Gallaghers put up a fight – even that new one, Sammi, claims Ian should be with his family during his time of need, as if she knows anything about the fucked-up mess that’s become of Ian Gallagher’s relationships – but college must have done something good for Lip after all, even if it’s burned the Southside out of him, if it was ever there to begin with. Mickey almost applauds America’s institutions of higher learning for giving Lip enough sense to say, “Ian should stay with Mickey.”

“No,” Fiona says, _“No_ , Mickey doesn’t know a thing about dealing with this.”

“Then he’ll learn.” Lip turns to him, his voice a slow drawl that belies the tension there. “Won’t you? You can do this?”

It’s probably not smart to reply with a resounding “no” even if that’s how he feels at the moment, sitting at the Gallaghers’ kitchen table with their collective judgment weighing him down. Carl gives him a half-smile from his perch on the counter, but Carl’s idea of encouragement includes offering Mickey all the weed he can smuggle away to help accelerate Ian’s healing process, so Mickey accepts his approval with a grain of salt.

The fact of the matter is, no matter how many WebMD articles he reads, no matter how much time he spends fretting over Ian to his doctors, who reassure him that everything will be _just fine_ , bipolar disorder can be managed with the right treatment and a strong support system, he can’t help but remember that he’s the one who got Ian into this mess in the first place. Lip hasn’t repeated it since that long car ride, but every time he sees Fiona and Lip, the silence is telling. _You should’ve listened to us about Ian. If you’d gotten him help, none of this would have happened._

“I can do it,” Mickey says, his voice cracking at the end. He clears his throat. “He’ll be fine with me.”

Fiona grimaces. “Mickey, you don’t have to do this. We’re his family—“

“So am I.”

And he leaves them like that, frozen in their kitchen in the middle of a disaster, watching him like he’s the biggest disaster of them all.

* * *

He locks their knife drawers first.

“Locks won’t keep Orange Boy out, if he tries.” Svetlana leans against the doorway to the kitchen, cradling Yevgeny to her chest. It’s been a struggle to convince her to let him go for the past few days, even when she’s off to work. Mickey’s had to remind her that Yevgeny has _two_ parents on more than one occasion, that even if Svetlana birthed him from her loins, he has an equal stake in this too. Parenthood doesn’t come easy to him, but he’s trying. Ian had always wanted him to.

“Well, we’re gonna hope he doesn’t try, won’t we?” he shoots back. He slams a drawer shut, and the sound reverberates through the kitchen. They both wince.

“How is he?”

“Why do you fuckin’ care?” Mickey says, but he knows that’s unfair. Even if Svetlana won’t admit it, Ian’s grown on her. They’re both assholes who enjoy seeing Mickey squirm, so fuck, maybe they bonded over that. Or their penchant for waving huge-ass dildos in Mickey’s face, who knows.

Svetlana shrugs, but when Mickey’s hand trembles as he slips on the last lock, she crosses the room in a matter of seconds and clicks it shut for him. Her bony hands slide over his, and even that small attempt at comfort nearly breaks him. Svetlana’s never been one for sentiments, but she eyes him warily as he steadies his breathing. Family, he’d promised Ian, and he’d declare it to the whole world if it wanted him to. This is what families do for each other. They take care of shit like this, make sure they don’t end up in a pool of their own blood during Thanksgiving dinner.   

Yevgeny reaches out to Mickey with his little hands, and catches one of Mickey’s fingers in his fist.

* * *

“We’re going to be fine,” Mickey repeats to himself on the drive over to the hospital.

“It’ll be okay,” he says as he sits in the waiting room.

“Bipolar disorder isn’t the end of the world,” he mumbles again, only to catch Fiona Gallagher raising an eyebrow as she notices that he’s been talking to himself like he’s read one too many self-help books recently.

He’s saved up his encouragements, a running mental list of affirmations he needs to hear as much as Ian does, but when he sees Ian standing in the doorway, uncertain as he notices his family congregated in the waiting room, it’s all he can do to concentrate on his breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

When it comes Mickey’s turn to hug Ian, his arms feel disconnected from his body. Ian doesn’t respond when Mickey slips his arms around Ian’s waist, keeps his hands at the small of his back. His fingers brush over the hospital bracelet, and he longs to rip it from Ian’s wrist.

“Shit, Gallagher,” he whispers. Ian remains stiff and impassive, but when Mickey strokes his thumb along Ian’s spine, Ian falls into him just a little.

* * *

Positivity and support, the doctor had reminded them. Mickey keeps his hand in Ian’s, but Ian’s fingers are still cold, no matter how Mickey tries to warm them up. He’s lost weight these past few weeks, and his cheekbones stand out even more prominently than usual. If Mickey were to lift his shirt, he bets he can count Ian’s ribs.

The doctors, the nurses, even the damn receptionist remembers his face by now. He’s made it a point to stop by as often as possible, even if he can’t see Ian. Even being in the same building calms his nerves somewhat. They all think he’s adorable, and Mickey pretends he doesn’t hear them cooing behind his back. It’d almost hurt his pride if he had any left.

(And if this overwhelming _feeling_ for Ian is replacing his pride, maybe it’s better this way.)

He hears the whispers as he’s leading Ian away, even if they don’t think he’ll notice.

“So damn young, such a shame,” they all say, as if they can already see the expiration date Mickey refuses to acknowledge.

* * *

Mickey never realized how much space Ian took up on the bed until he was longer in it. He’s all long limbs and wild energy, and for the days Ian was in the hospital, Mickey used to run his hands through the empty space in the hopes that Ian would appear from thin air.

He’d never realized how empty the bed could feel even with Ian there.  

“You still haven’t done the laundry,” is the first thing Ian says when he enters their bedroom. A looming mountain of dirty clothes teeters over the bed, neglected in the time Mickey spent half-crazed over Ian. It’s his first sentence consisting of more than three words all day, and Mickey allows himself a moment of hope before Ian flops down on the bed and curls into a threadbare blanket. The doctors assured him Ian was fine now, that if he were to enter another depressive or manic episode, Mickey should get him to the hospital, _quick_ , but they’d taught Ian to recognize the signs, so he should be fine, just fine, upon release –

“I can see your brain working from here,” Ian tells him, his eyes shrewd.

Mickey doesn’t look at him, begins attacking the stack of laundry instead. His throat is tight. “I was fucking worried about you, shithead.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ian says vaguely.

Debbie pokes her head into the room. “Ian?” she asks tentatively, and when her brother only gives her an incoherent mumble to go by, she turns to Mickey instead. “Can we say goodbye? Sammi wants us home soon.”

Ian makes no move to get out of bed, to say goodbye to his family or otherwise. Mickey hates to say it – the Gallaghers have been on edge since Ian was released, but there’s Ian’s well-being and there’s his family’s goddamn _feelings,_ and Mickey will pick Ian every time. “Ian’s had a long day, maybe it’s better if you come back tomorrow.”

But when Mickey closes the door behind them, shutting Ian away from the rest of the world, he does so with a finality that pulls at his chest.

* * *

“Breakfast in bed, you’re getting the five-star fucking treatment, Army.” Mickey sets the plate of eggs on Ian’s lap and hops over to Ian’s other side. The bed creaks under his weight, and normally, Ian would already be filling in the space between them with his kisses, driving Mickey crazy with his hands, but now, Mickey’s movements go unnoticed. Mickey’s tempted to claim this feat of cooking for himself, but Ian knows that the only skill on Mickey’s cooking resume should be “not _completely_ burning the toast,” and besides, with the way he’s been acting these days, Ian wouldn’t care anyway.

They don’t talk about the pills Mickey had placed near the orange juice.

It’s another repeat of the past three days. Wake up, bring Ian breakfast, smile benignly, make sure Ian eats. That’s Mickey’s morning schedule now. He sees a long succession of mornings like this in the future, and it wouldn’t be so bad if Ian would just look at him, recognize the effort Mickey’s making. Other guys would have left by now, doesn’t he know? Ian has an entire family of screw-ups behind him, he doesn’t need Mickey’s bumbling attempts at comfort. 

As soon as the thought flits through Mickey’s head, he banishes it. Ian doesn’t deserve this. He can do better than Mickey’s pettiness. 

Ian looks at his food, pokes at it with a fork and eats it slowly, bite by bite. He keeps his eyes down, barely even acknowledges Mickey as he keeps up the inane chatter. Oh, Fiona called, apparently Jimmy’s back? Lip has some freshmen in his hall who’re into batshit crazy porn and won’t shut up about it. Carl’s finally making a profit, God knows how.

All the while, Mickey keeps holding on to Ian’s hand, covering the brittleness of his bones. This isn’t the kid who used to run his lips, his hands over every part of Mickey’s body in his haste to wreck him, turning him inside out until he hardly recognized the man staring back at him in the mirror. He’s not depressed Ian either, who laid there unresponsive and so still that Mickey had, for a moment, been afraid for the worst. This Ian is just –

“Tired,” Ian says, when Mickey asks him if he’d like to visit the Alibi that day, visit his family, their old dugout, anyplace but here. “I’m just tired. Gimme a few more days.”

“Your family’s worried. They think if they don’t keep an eye on you, you’ll run off again.” 

Ian scowls. “If they want to see me, I’m right fucking here.”   

 _Are you?_ Mickey wants to yell until they break out of this limbo. 

But he doesn’t. He’s Ian’s best support system now, and he can’t let him down again, not after his ignorance had nearly gotten Ian killed. He’d heard Carl. The bullshit Monica did, he never wants Ian to get to that point. Ian’s not that person. They may share common genetics, they may share this disease, but Monica never had Mickey, and she didn’t have the force of Milkovich stubbornness – and plain old stupidity – behind her. 

Mickey pushes Ian’s breakfast in front of him, ignoring the silence as Ian swallows the pills without a word.  

* * *

Sometimes, Mickey wonders if the Gallaghers have a schedule figured out for their daily Ian check-ups. Lip and Fiona call most often, and Fiona will even deign to grace their house with her presence a couple of times a week. The younger kids come and go as they please. Getting his privacy invaded goes like clockwork these days. He should’ve known letting Ian Gallagher into his life would knock down any barriers he’d set up to protect himself.

Saturday is Lip’s night, so Mickey’s not surprised to hear his phone ring at eight o’clock sharp. “Ian’s okay? You’re keepin’ him safe?” Lip says.

Mickey can hear Amanda offer her own well wishes in the background. To him, they’re empty, breakable, but he can’t ask for more from someone who knows Ian best through Lip’s stories.

Yes, Ian’s safe, Mickey almost says. He hasn’t left the fucking house. Even Svetlana’s worried. At this point, I’d be _happy_ if he got himself into trouble, because then he’d be living.

Instead, Mickey says, “Everything’s fine.”

He’s been lying a lot these days.

“Did you take him in for his checkup? Everything’s good with the lithium? No problems with his thyroid, because Monica had those after a while – “ 

Not for the first time, Mickey wishes Mandy were here. They’d lost contact with her, and not a day goes by that Mickey doesn’t regret not stopping her before she’d run off with Kenyatta. What would Mandy say, if she came back tomorrow and found them like this? She’d begged him to listen from the very beginning, and look where ignoring her got him. As an added bonus, she’s one of the few people who can actually shut up Lip Gallagher, so now Mickey’s stuck listening to him drone on and on, as if he couldn’t just take a fucking train back to the Southside and check on Ian in person.

“And hey,” Lip hesitates, “you heard anything from Mandy?”

Mickey decides that’s where his goodwill runs out, and hangs up.

* * *

One day, Mickey isn't there.

He returns to find Ian staring at the wall listlessly, his nails digging into the palms of his hand, creating angry red marks that Mickey longs to smooth away. He’s fully dressed for the first time in days. Ian stiffens in shock when Mickey enters the room. He stares at Mickey like he’s something out of a dream, and he can’t believe he’s there.

Mickey’s still grimy from the job they just pulled, but he attempts a grin anyway. A break from his mask of _support_ and _optimism_ must have put him out of practice, because the smile doesn’t fit quite right, pulls at the edges of his mouth the wrong way.

“Were you waiting?” Mickey laces his fingers through Ian’s, and has to choke back a thankful sob when Ian squeezes back. His gaze fixes on Mickey’s face, eyes running over every detail.

“You didn’t give me my pills this morning,” he says finally. 

Mickey freezes. “Yes, I did, I put them right there on the dresser. I told you last night I wouldn’t be here this morning.”

They both look down, and the two pills lie there in the dark corner between the dresser and the bed. Mickey must have knocked them over in his haste to get dressed that morning, and he curses himself for messing up again, when they’re already walking on eggshells. One mistake could cost Ian his life, and Mickey would never forgive himself if he were the one making it. 

“Did you – “ Mickey’s voice chokes. “Did you take your meds – “

Ian looks away. “Yeah, I know where you keep everything.” Mickey wasn’t sure Ian had paid attention when he’d gone over this, if he’d paid attention to anything at all that day Mickey had taken him home. 

“I thought you’d given up on me,” Ian says, his voice small. “I wouldn’t blame you.” 

Mickey can’t hide his shock. He thought he’d made his intentions perfectly clear. Hasn’t that been the running theme of the past few days? Leaving Ian would mean leaving a part of himself behind, and Mickey’s not too fond of ripping his own heart out of his chest and stringing it up for the vultures to tear apart. He’ll leave that for the goddamn Romeos of the world.

Mickey’s selfish, and he’ll cling on to Ian even if he can’t be what Ian needs.

Mickey tightens his grip on Ian’s hand. “Of course not. I’m here. We’re fine.”

Suddenly, Ian’s expression hardens, and he snatches his hand back from Mickey. He presses his eyes shut. “Stop _saying_ that,” he spits.

“Saying _what_?” Mickey’s getting desperate. He has the hospital on speed dial, he should call them now in case Ian’s getting into one of his episodes. His hands flit around Ian, and he rubs the back of Ian’s hand soothingly. Ian tears away from his grasp, his face turning stony. Mickey’s carefully cultivated smile falters.

“Stop lying to me!”

At this, Mickey can’t hold back his own scream of frustration. “What the hell do you _want?”_

“I _want_ my boyfriend back. I _want_ him to yell at me about how I stole his kid and dragged him halfway to Florida. I _want_ him to stop treating me like I’m fragile, and I _want_ him to stop pretending we’re going to be fucking okay because this?” Ian crushes a neglected pill beneath his tattered Converse. A part of Mickey winces at that. The price of Ian’s meds can feed a small country. He can steal them, but who knows whether that shit’s the good kind, and Ian deserves the best. These are the things he has to consider these days. Mickey can hardly keep himself afloat under the weight of it all.  

“This is our fucking life now, and I can’t – “ Ian gasps, blinking rapidly, and the skin is puffy around his eyes. “I can’t fucking take it.” He laughs mirthlessly. “You may as well just leave. You didn’t sign up for this.”

“No,” Mickey agrees. Ian’s shoulders tense, and his breathing stutters. “I signed up for a happy kid who had his goals set, who wanted to join the fuckin’ army but got sidetracked when he started screwin’ the neighborhood delinquent.” Mickey places a hand on Ian’s shoulder, runs a thumb over the coiled muscles. “But fuck that. That kid hasn’t been through half the shit you’ve been through.”

“I’m a mess.”

“We all are. You? More than most of these assholes, but I like you, so maybe you’re not as hopeless as you think. I have perfect taste, you know.”

That manages to pull a laugh out of Ian. Mickey hadn’t realized how much he’s missed that stupid laugh until now.

“We _are_ going to be okay,” Mickey continues. Ian’s mouth draws into a line again, but Mickey calms him with a hand at his wrist. “And that’s me talking. Before? That was what the doctors wanted. Listen to me, we’re going to survive this, and we’ll do it together.”

His voice chokes before he can get the last syllable out, and he tries to blink away at the wetness in his eyes before Ian notices, but Ian’s always been too observant for his own good. Sometimes, Mickey wonders how his life would have turned out if Ian hadn’t sought him out at all, hadn’t been observant enough to notice that Mickey was more than he thought he could be.

“This is weird,” Ian says, “you have a heart after all.”

“Don’t tell anyone. I may have to kill them."

Ian presses his head into Mickey’s shoulder, chuckling. “So you’re gonna be a dick again?”

Mickey's voice is sugary-sweet. “Yes, _dear_.”

**Author's Note:**

> come follow me on [tumblr](http://nicolikeswhiteboys.tumblr.com)!


End file.
